


Odds On

by epeolatry



Series: Halcyon Days [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Hangover, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eponine and Grantaire make a wager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odds On

“I’m going down the pub with Bahorel. Be back in an hour or so.” Grantaire called from the door, shrugging on his leather jacket.

 

Éponine looked up from her book with a quizzical eyebrow and repeated slowly, “You’ll be back in an hour or so?”

 

“Yeah,” replied Grantaire nonchalantly, “We’re only going for a pint.”

 

“You and Bahorel. One pint. Back in an hour?” intoned Éponine disbelievingly.

 

Grantaire snorted, “I do have some self control you know. A very small amount… Actually none. But my overdrawn bank account insists that I’m only going for one pint. Possibly two if Bahorel can be convinced to splash the cash.”

 

Éponine looked back down at her book with a smirk, “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

 

Grantaire laughed, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

 

Just before the door closed behind him he heard Éponine sing out, “I’ll bet you breakfast that you come back at half four in the morning with a split lip and still coked up to your eyeballs!”

 

“You’re on!” hollered Grantaire back with a grin before slamming the door behind him and sauntering down the street to meet Bahorel at their local.

 

**

 

“Good morning sunshine.”

 

Grantaire opened bleary eyes to find Éponine smirking down at him, backlit by bright morning sunlight with her dark hair weaving a messy halo around her head.

 

“Ngguh.”

 

Éponine’s smile grew into a mischievous grin, “Had a big night then?”

 

Grantaire’s head was throbbing. His mouth was sticky and dry and his lower lip felt split and swollen. He had been sleeping on the sofa for some reason, despite the fact that his own bedroom was mere yards away, and he was still wearing one trainer.

 

“Shut up,” he groaned, shading his eyes with one clumsy hand as Éponine moved to place a mug of tea on the nearby coffee table and sunlight flooded over Grantaire’s prone body, “What time did I get in?”

 

“About half four, judging by the crashing noises that woke me around then,” sniggered his flatmate.

 

“Shit. Sorry man,” Grantaire heaved himself into a sitting position, kicking off his lone shoe and gingerly fingering the damage to his lip, “I don’t even remember getting home...”

 

“Bahorel texted me earlier. He said he carried you back from the club after you were thrown out for fighting.”

 

“Club..?” Grantaire’s memory stopped around about the time they had started doing shots of Jaeger in the local boozer, but as far as he was aware there were no decent clubs in the nearby vicinity, certainly nowhere that Bahorel would be caught dead in.

 

“And I found _this_ in your shoe,” Éponine smirked triumphantly and held up a small plastic bag with a residue of white powder in it, “Which means, I believe, that I win our little wager. You stumbled in at half four with a magnificent split lip and a noseful of Charlie. You owe me breakfast. Or if you’d rather pay in kind, I’ll take ten quid.”

 

Grantaire groaned, “Nope. No. I win.”

 

Éponine gave him a look of predatory curiosity, “What? You did every damn thing I said you’d do, therefore I win.”

 

Grantaire smirked tiredly, “Nuh uh. S’not coke,” he pointed at the baggie, “ _Mandy_.”

 

Without hesitation Éponine opened the baggie, collected some of the powdery substance on one fingertip, then popped the finger into her mouth. With a look of concentration and almost obscene slowness she withdrew the digit from between thin, sensual lips.

 

“You bastard.”

 

Grantaire smirked widely.

 

“You absolute bastard. You did that on purpose! You don’t even _like_ MDMA!”

 

Grantaire shrugged with a grin, “Beggars can’t be choosers – it was Bahorel’s shout. Though I may have mentioned that I wasn’t in the mood for coke...”

 

Éponine snatched up the tea from the side table and looked at Grantaire scathingly, “You deliberately engineered this hangover. Schemers do not get tea and sympathy.” And she stomped out of the room, leaving Grantaire to chuckle to himself until, three increasingly needy text messages later, she relented, bringing in a fresh mug of tea and settling down at the other end of the sofa to listen to Grantaire’s recollections of Bahorel’s many terrible and unsuccessful pick up lines from the previous night.


End file.
